A Lesson In Respect
by Miss Forrester
Summary: Hornet is silent, obedient, willing to carry out her master's every command. But Megatron is gone, and it is only Commander Starscream who calls the shots, now. Perhaps she wouldn't mind so much if he didn't seem to have a problem with her. She can put up with most anything, but this time, he's crossed the line. This time, she can't let it go. This time, he will pay.


"Dominance. Control. These things the unjust seek most of all. And so it is the duty of the just to defy dominance and to challenge control."

- Robert Fanney

Not for the first time, the scout found herself in an unpleasant predicament that fell to the courtesy of, once again, Starscream, second in command only to Lord Megatron. And he didn't seem to be planning to back off this time.

Perhaps because she had been trying her best to hold her glossa in regards to the current acting Commander of the Decepticons. With Megatron who-knows-where, and her Commander refusing to step forward unless the Seeker was unable to lead in the warlord's wake, she was stuck taking orders from the infernal son of a glitch.

(As if he would ever be able to give a coherent order that wasn't debilitated by his own arrogance. "Commander?" What a joke.)

And of course, mimicking clockwork, the Seeker was all-too-distracted from his real duties, from the task of scouring Earth for its minerals or incinerating the Autobots, because he was too busy trying to push her buttons.

She supposed that even if she stopped to think about it, she would never quite understand what the commanding officer held against her, why he found it so entertaining to nag and poke at her and give her pointless orders just to see how far she was willing to go.

But for the first time, in vorns, someone had managed to push the wrong button. The insecticon-named scout had been feeling particularly hardwired from dealing with the Eradicons ranking below her, the ones Starscream had given her dominion over to 'split up the task force' (waste her time), and now that she had been on her way to report to her commander (her true commander), _he _just had to make an appearance.

Without thinking, she had vented in annoyance, the ordeal from before making itself known in every crevice of her body. Her optics flickered, and she briefly wondered, idly, whether she could get away with putting the Seeker into stasis lock. Then reminded herself sternly that this would cause dissent among the ranks, so kept her urges in check.

He was approaching from behind, she knew, without looking, so once he had reached fifty yards, she stood to attention, away from his path of choice through the high-ceilinged hallway. Her head bowed in that form of respect she had perfected throughout the vorns serving under Lord Megatron, but she didn't feel him continue on. In fact, he stopped before her, and from her lowered vision, she could only see his heeled pedes clicking, almost whimsically, on the cold steel floors beneath them both.

"Commander," she spoke, voice a picture of wariness, hoping he had not heard her sigh of irritation from earlier (though it wasn't out of fear - rather out of an urge to avoid any further shenanigans for the remainder of the day).

"Hornet," came his response. Wily, calculating, placating. Then, "Long day?"

She fought the urge to make him pay for his little joke, instead reminding herself of her place (though she did not doubt she could take him out, if it came down to it). There was nothing she could say that would not be dishonest or disrespectful, so she chose, wisely, to keep her mouth shut.

A huff from her commander, and then his taloned fingers beckoned for her to raise her head. She did, and once she looked him in the faceplates, albeit hesitantly (she really would rather just leave), she noticed a flicker in his optics, one she didn't like. A distinct look of mischief, and she knew, just knew.

He was bored, again. Every time he was bored, he sought out some poor Vehicon to order around and harass for the entertainment's sake. Well, _had_, back before Megatron had gone MIA. Now, she had been the subject of this special brand of torture for metacycles on end. It was infuriating at first, but now, she was only tired of his sparkling-reminiscent attitude.

"Tell me," his voice was mocking, low, just for her audio receptors, "have you succeeded in locating where our old friends are hiding out?" And by old friends, he meant Autobots. If he was seriously suggesting she could have had any luck while he threw every menial task he could think of at her whenever she was in the process of doing just that, then he must be overcharged on high-grade.

But instead of pointing this out, she swallowed her anger, forcing herself to remain impartial in tone. "No, Commander. No such base to report of, as of yet." _I'm sure_, she thought to herself bitterly, _that if you gave me a chance to focus instead of putting me in charge of sparksitting perfectly capable Vehicons, I _might _have found the blasted Autobots, by now. _

Hornet made sure to pull in her EM field as close as it would come, wrapping it around herself so that he could not read into her indignation, or her irritation, but it was too late. He had felt it, brushed her field with his own, knew that he was being a nuisance.

And he reveled in that knowledge. She could just see it, written all over that arrogant look on his faceplates. "Failure is not an option. You'd do well to remember that." He was all but purring now, knowing he was succeeding in what he thrived for all this time, and she swallowed back another smarting retort. Well, tried.

It tumbled out before she could stop herself.

"If you really intended for me to succeed, I would have." It was a snap, like something in her self-discipline had broken, and he was surprised, only momentarily, caught off-guard, having expected her to hold her glossa, as always. But then he was slinking closer, almost like a pleased cat, and his voice was honey over shards of glass.

"I don't like the tone of your voice, scout," he pointed out, though she knew he was enjoying it as much as he enjoyed being the Commander. "Keep yourself in check."

She forced herself to keep quiet, to nod, to say what she had taught herself. "My apologies, Commander." There was a moment of silence, and then his fingers, thin, wiry, wrapped around her chin, jerking her closer.

Hornet felt uncertainty well up inside her like a rusting of her core, and her optics shuttered. "Commander?" She didn't really want to know what he was planning, but if she ever desired to report her findings to Soundwave, she would need to remind him that she was busy. Which meant inquiring about his actions.

"Soundwave is a lucky mech, little scout," he murmured, and she wondered briefly what in the Pits he was going on about, this time. "To receive such devotion, such attention, such," he paused, preparing to say something she was sure she would not like. He leaned closer, his voice a purr, right into her audio receptors. "Unwavering obedience."

She grit her denta, not quite liking the implications behind his oily tone of voice.

(Not quite able to keep the resulting images out of her processor - ones she knew she was ashamed of at the moment they sprung up.)

He spotted the look of astonishment on her faceplates, and his resulting laugh was a grind on her gears. "Oh, look at this. Have I forced you to remember, to recall the unpleasantness?" She shuddered, without meaning to, backing out of his grasp. Anger flashed in her spark, clouded her processor. She hoped he would leave it at that, would leave her to try and erase his audaciousness out of her systems. But he didn't receive the hint.

And pushed the wrong button.

"Or are you perhaps reacting with excitement at the idea? Would you be willing to beg for him to make use of his _assets_?"

Hornet didn't think. Anger was ruling supreme. How _dare _he make a mockery of her, of her commander-!? Her thin fingers closed around his slim neck cables, and he sputtered for a moment, caught terribly off-guard, having been busy with slinking about arrogantly, having not thought of any possible violent retaliation.

"Hornet," he tried to speak, but her servo squeezed tighter, and for perhaps the first time since Megatron's absence, he felt a flash of uncertainty, of fear, of concern over his own well-being.

She didn't answer, the narrowing of her optical ridges, the rage behind the red glass, the unamused expression on her faceplates - she didn't have to speak for the Seeker to realize he had crossed the line.

But this was odd. It wouldn't be the first time he had insinuated about the nature of her relationship with her companions or acquaintances. Slag, he even implied something between her and Airachnid, the creepy witch, just to grind her gears, and had gotten nothing short of a barely noticeable frown in return.

What exactly was it about the third-in-command that made Hornet react in that way? Perhaps in all his teasing, he had been right? No, that thought was too strange, too unreal, and he refused to acknowledge it as truth.

Something inside of him roared and spit fire. Jealousy, he realized, all too suddenly. All this time, he had never made the connection. Why he felt such a pull to seek out the Scout, to check on her "progress" (well-being - which he had brushed off as wanting to have her offlined), why he felt so compelled to tease and harass and mock the femme more than he would bother with even the Autobots. It was because he was attracted to her. Starscream, the great Air Commander of Vos, was attracted to Megatron's most loyal scout.

It was disgusting.

And enrapturing. He wondered just how far he could push her, but then realized that maybe now was not the right time. And did it, anyways.

"Is it true, then?"

There was a flash in her optics. "No, you incorrigible son of a glitch. It is not, and you will never imply that again, not if you wish to keep any of the respect I have left for you." It was a threat, subtle, underlying. It wouldn't take much to turn the Vehicon swarms against him, to disrupt the order and send him spiraling into chaos, make his dream a nightmare, and she knew he could see it in her optics.

The malice, the barely controlled rage, the calculations of how to get it done.

Ever the scout.

"Then prove it," his voice came out softer than he meant. Almost a whisper. Perhaps it was because she was standing so close that his intakes were glitching, or perhaps it was fear for his own life. But at that moment, he did not sound like a commander.

And for the first time, she smiled. It was not a friendly one, it was dark, full of promises for pain, for humiliation. She was going to make him regret wasting her time with frivolities the past metacycle or two, going to make him wish he had never opened his mouth about Soundwave, make him pay.

Uneasiness swept through his systems, and he considered backing out, but how could he? Wasn't this what he had wanted, deep down? Her attention, the good or the bad? He supposed he would be getting a combination of both.

(He could only hope.)

He dropped to his stabilizing servos, but they shook, crumbled underneath him from the weight of her stare and the feeling of her body hovering over his. Sleek metal that glistened under the light, quick pedes, a flexible frame (he had observed this enough out on the battlefield - as had the Prime, that glitch), deft fingers, an air of authority, one that commanded respect. Had she always been this way? He couldn't recall, not with the scramble his processor was in.

No, surely not. Not with Megatron around. Not with Soundwave watching her every move. From down below her, his optics raised to meet hers, saw the ferocious glint in them, a savage pleasure in seeing him on his knees before her.

In such a subservient position. He hastily pulled himself upright, or that was the plan, but a single look put a pause in his actions. What exactly was this? Would she beat him while he was down? What sort of sick satisfaction could she derive from that? _Putting me in my place_, his processor suggested, but he couldn't see why she didn't just get him down to this level on her own. She was certainly capable of it. If she could bring the Prime to a standstill (albeit because the Prime was smitten with her and did not wish to cause her pain), then she most certainly could cut him down to size.

But she wanted him to feel humiliated, to know she held control over him with just her words, to make him feel weak, subservient, liable to bow to anyone who provided the proper incentive. A groveler. A beggar. Exactly the way he was viewed in her optics.

"On your servos, commander," she told him, and though she had thoughtfully remembered his chain of command, he felt it was more a game to her, now, more than anything. A game of power, of control. And though he was heating with humiliation, with anger, with indignation, something was also heating up in a lower part of his chasis. His interface equipment was twitching, and he was sure if he didn't leave soon, his valve would begin to drip lubricants before she laid a single servo on him.

What the slag was wrong with him? Did he enjoy being objectified in such a manner? It never failed to make an obedient dog out of the proud commander, never would, probably. Thankfully, only the CMO had ever known about this secret kink of his, as he would have died of embarrassment if Megatron had known about this weakness.

Did _she _already know? He snuck a glance at her faceplates, saw her optics swirling with dark intent, and realized that, even if she didn't, she probably didn't see the effect it was having. She was bent on humiliation, on degradation, and nothing more. How could she be, when the Prime had already communicated interest? Who was he in comparison?

The thought angered him. "What exactly do you think you are doing, scout?"

Nothing faltered in her optics, gave away any hint of hesitation, of weakness.

"Exactly what you asked for, Commander."

She raised a stabilizing servo, and then the heel of her pede was applying pressure to the crevice between his wings. It scraped, but the sensation was like fire, painful, raw, glorious, against the sensors aligning his back-struts.

The scout pushed, hard, and he was forced to slam both his servos on the hard floor to keep his faceplates from crashing into it. He was twitching, both in pain and something he would rather not admit, and his back arched, both in an attempt to get away from the unwelcome pressure and to welcome more, more of her touch, when she ground her pede down over the base of his wings once more. The pressure lifted, and he vented out an extake he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Tell me, Commander, how have your duties been faring?"

He almost groaned. How could she ask about his Primus-forsaken _duties_ at a time like this? His wings were still sending him reeling with pain, and he noted dazedly that she must have torn a wire.

"I-" he tried to say, but his vocal processors seized up when he felt a much lighter pressure nearing the space that had just been assaulted. Her careful fingers, long, thin, curved carefully, dexterous, were trailing lightly over the damage she had inflicted. A gentle touch, in comparison to before.

A sigh left his lips, and then her fingers were dragging, alternating between hard and light, claws raking over the polished metal, dragging forth energon, bringing up memories of pain, memories of Megatron, memories of having his wings tortured in a similar fashion by the CMO, himself.

"No-" he tried to protest, but then he was crying out, voice an octave higher than it should have been, when the flat of her pointed fingers pressed over a torn wire, and then jerked across it, causing sweet friction, the spark from the severed black metal heating his frame, agony in his wings like high-grade to his valve. His spinal column arched, back struts heating up like a welding torch, having to fight the automatic response of opening his interfacing panel.

This wasn't supposed to be pleasurable. She wasn't doing this to bring him to overload. She was meaning for him to feel pain and nothing else, but when it was _Hornet _touching him like this, the torture was sweet, welcome, necessary.

"Have you gotten anything done, you preening half-clock?" At such harsh wording, at such a startling hit to his intelligence, to his ego, he should have felt anger. And he did, a flicker of it. The part that wasn't thinking, that was too heated for words, could only whimper. She _was_ out to degrade him, make him realize just how half-witted she believed him to be. An oaf. Like Megatron.

Only he would have roared in anger and squashed her helm by now. The seeker, on the other hand, could not. He protested once more, weakly, and she laughed, a sound that both set him on edge and scared him out of his processor, all at once.

"Please." He didn't know what he was asking for, whether relief or for her to continue, to keep touching him, but he knew that she wasn't going to give his pleas any mind.

And he was wrong, again. Her touch vanished, and he keened, a noise of protest. She stood before him, and his optics trailed upwards, desperately, and he was greeted by her blank expression. It frustrated him, made him want to cry, but he kept silent.

"Go, then. Drag yourself to the med-bay and have Knock Out see to your wounds. Let's see if he can fix your valve, too," she mocked, and at the sound of her words, at the way she leaned down to brush her fingertips over said panel, he keened once more. Anguished. He could order the CMO to do so (and he might not complain much, that mischievous doctor), but for once, it wasn't the CMO who had made his systems so hot he couldn't breathe around his own arousal.

It was her, and no one besides had ever managed to get him this hot, this desperate, this needy, anyway. When she saw that he wasn't leaving, wasn't pushing her away and scrambling for the other direction, she rose an optic ridge. A movement that scrambled his processor, and then the flat of her servo pressed over his panel, fingers scraping over the metal surface, leaving scratches over where his interfacing equipment was just straining against the surface, begging to be released.

He didn't want to hear how desperate he sounded, but he couldn't let her go, not without finishing this. Primus, he would quite possibly lose his processor if she left him like this. "You like to be degraded," she was saying when he tuned back in, and he was surprised to see a smile on her features. A teasing grin.

"You only made so many mistakes in the hopes that, one day, this may have been his way of punishing you. Truly pitiful. You should be ashamed." He could only whine in response. She tapped the port cover, and he arched into her touch. Her other servo had disappeared, but then he felt that ghost of a touch trailing over the sensors along the rim of his wings, and he shuddered.

"Open this," she commanded, trailing a finger along the length of his panel, and he hurried to oblige. Lubricants dripped out of his valve, discoloring the floor beneath, and he made to close his legs, embarrassed, but she clucked her glossa in disapproval. "Against the wall."

He looked up at her, crazed with lust, with worry, with embarrassment. He was too slow for her liking. He felt the crack of her servo against his faceplate, and groaned out in pain, energon spilling from his lips.

His back-struts felt the slam of the wall, and his wings screamed out in pain, in protest, but she didn't stop there. Not when he had yelped out in response. Instead, her lips found his in a bruising kiss, and her servo sought out his, bringing his own shaking fingers to his dripping, overheated, tight valve.

He knew what she wanted him to do, and recalled with an ache in every joint what would happen if he disobeyed, so he plunged his taloned fingers into his own valve, keening and sighing at the feel. It had been far too long, he decided, and this was far more satisfying when she was watching so intently.

The fingers moved, in and out, as quickly and as desperate to reach the culmination as the rest of him felt. He could hardly breathe under her careful scrutinization. He began to feel a charge in his spark, knew he was nearing overload, and felt that his EM field was heating up significantly.

Then, "Stop."

He groaned, but after a single look from her, he removed his fingers, coated in the sticky substance that made up his lubricant, all but crying at the denial of a release. He knew better than to question her, after that display of violence.

Starscream would not put it past Hornet to rip his wings right off their hinges.

"Spread yourself out," she all but purred, and he had a double-take. Was she enjoying the sight, not merely for degradation, but for arousal? He didn't dare hope. Instead, he did as asked. His stabilizing servos spread out as he balanced against the wall, on the floor, like some organic in heat.

His inner thighs were trembling, and he fought the urge to cry out when her fingers came in to trace down alongside the wiring of the taut muscles. Her other hand softly traced the underside of his weeping spike, and her smile was devious. "Do you feel no shame, Starscream? To be mishandled in such a manner, so willingly, by what you claim is inferior? I wonder if any common Vehicon could get you to react in this manner? Or perhaps an insecticon? Are you so desperate for a spike that you would throw yourself at the spider?"

He groaned, denying her words. "No," he gasped out, voice rasped from the keening, "don't be ridiculous." She laughed, an unfriendly sound, and then one of her fingers plunged into his tight valve, ripping a scream from his lips as she rubbed her claw over the sensitive wiring inside.

"I doubt I am the only one able to make a whore of you," she purred out, evidently enjoying his pain, his need. He scratched for purchase at her shoulders, and though he expected pain in return, he didn't expect this level of cruelty. Her finger twitched, and he felt more than heard the wire snap.

The scream that spilled from his lips was silenced by her mouth, and then her denta were biting down hard on his lips, offering scrapes and bruises. He all but cried from the relief when she rubbed, almost as if to apologize, at the severed wire. A second finger plunged into his valve, and his helm fell back as his muscles grew taut, field radiant with desire and fear. The hand on his wing was back, scratching down a fine line of energon, making him bleed, making him shudder. "Tell me what you want, Commander. You have to order it, after all. A mere scout cannot act without the consent of her Lord," she made a mockery of his words from a cycle ago.

No, he would not do it. He would not beg. He would keen, he would cry out, he would allow himself to be lost in this, but he would not beg, not to her, not to anyone. Her fingers pried themselves further into his valve, scratching along sensitive wiring, but not quite tearing them, not like before.

He shuddered, all but writhing under the force of her ministrations, and tried not to keen as her other servo zeroed in on a cluster of nodes along the base of his wings. The fingers danced over it, not quite touching it, and he choked out a, "Please."

"Of course, Commander."

Her fingers closed around the node, fingers scratching over the surface. And then she tore it right out. He had never screamed so loud in his life before, and was sure every Vehicon within a square mile must be wondering what was happening to their Commander. Quickly, he shut his mouth, terrified. It was horrible enough to be in this position in the middle of a public hallway, but to be found like this, in such a level of debauchery?

No, he would not allow it.

"That's right, Commander. It would be a shame if our fun had to end so soon, wouldn't it?" she cooed, and he shifted in her hold, crying out once more when her fingers plunged into the hole seeping energon, the one where the sensor had once been. What was she doing? Hoping to put him into stasis lock with just the pain? He was beginning to regret his words, and realized she may have been aiming for just that.

Slag, she was good.

But then, she wasn't a scout or Knockout's prime interrogator for nothing.

"Tell me what you want," she growled, popping her fingers out of the wound. He heard the shift in her metal, had no idea what she was doing, and felt the fingers in his valve begin to pull out. Then, the pain washed over him in a red haze.

His optics offlined for a mere second, and when he came to, he was screaming as if his wing had been torn right off. She had plunged one of her blades right into the empty socket of wiring. If he made it through this, he would be passed out on the med-berth before Knockout could ask what had happened.

Then, she pulled out the blade, the metal shifted once more, and she was pressing a finger to the severed wiring gently, soothingly, and he was surprised to feel the jolt of hot pressure to his valve, which began to leek more lubricant as if she had already spiked him instead of tortured him.

What in the Pits...? How had she learned such a devious little trick?

The Prime? No, far too kind to inflict that sort of damage. Soundwave?

He'd rather not think about the third option. (Megatron was capable of anything.)

Hornet's fingers slid up the length of his valve, and then he felt it. Felt the despair, the pure desire, the urge to sob, the madness that would surely come if he didn't feel her inside of him right at this instant.

"Please, Primus, oh-" his voice was a keen, a sigh, a plead, but it wasn't enough. Not for her.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Commander," she cooed. "What do you want?"

He reached for her, thought better of it, and let his helm fall forward, optics meeting hers, the frenzy in them obvious to any who looked. "I want you," he breathed out, "inside of me. Please, I can't take this, not-"

His voice ended in a high keening wail. She had pulled her fingers out, and he hadn't noticed, but her plating was gone, and she was buried inside of him without warning. Without even a single reaction to his words visible on her faceplates.

A finger came to his lips, and for a moment, he thought she was ordering him to stay silent, but then she commanded, "Suck."

He opened his mouth, readily, tasting himself on her finger, moaning around the appendage as she settled into him. His valve was tight, too tight, not prepared for her sudden intrusion, and she laughed at the look of pain in his optics, at the tightening of his muscles.

She retracted the one finger from his mouth, and he whined at the loss of contact. He knew he must look pathetic, and wondered briefly whether he had lost his fragging mind.

Her fingers trailed over his plating, settling for trailing a long scratch over his chasis, over the marking of his faction, of his loyalty (cough, cough), before she was just making idle marks here and there on his plating. He could hardly protest, being left breathless by the way her hips felt against his. Amazing, he wanted to say, beautiful. She looked beautiful.

In this moment of terror, he could see the lighting reflecting off her brilliant green armor, light in hue, a complement to his own noble coloring. He could see the flexing of her frame, the satisfaction set into every twist of her faceplates, the sadistic glow of pleasure at his pain and the tightness of his valve around her spike.

She surprised him. Instead of forcing him to overload against the wall, like he had feared she would, she pulled him down with her, so that his wings hit the floor, and his back had a more stable purchase. Hovering over her commander as she was, she was the picture of every encounter he had ever dreamed of.

A beautiful and fierce femme. A ferocious lover. The only master he would ever accept. And now that he had a taste, he knew no one would ever be able to bring him to overload again, not like she had, not like she could.

He keened as she wrapped his slender legs around her sleek frame, feeling the movement shift the spike buried inside of his valve, and then she placed both servos on either side of his helm. Pulled out until only the tip of her spike was still inside of him, and he whimpered in protest, tightening the hold of his legs on her waist, before she was grinning.

Her mouth found his again in a heated kiss, where he desperately sought out her glossa and allowed it to explore his mouth, tasting the energon, sweeping it clean of his own saliva. Some trickled through the corner of their mouths, down his chin, and she let his lips go right when she slammed back into him, buried to the hilt. He writhed underneath her, legs tightening and loosening as his body fought for control of the pleasure and the pain from the torn wiring in his valve.

Energon leaked out along with lubricant from the panel, and he cried out when her denta latched onto the delicate wiring of his neck, skimming along the surface of the metal and using her glossa to reduce him to a shuddering, moaning mess of a mech while her spike plunged back and forth, in and out of his valve, eliminating any semblance of self-control as his servos came up to wrap around her neck, searching for purchase.

When she pulled back, she wasn't surprised to see energon leaking from the corner of his mouth, seeing as how the pleasure had forced him to bite his own tongue to keep from living up to his designation.

"Starscream," she breathed, and he realized she must be near, as well. His optics onlined, and when he saw the thick pleasure on her faceplates, the way her chest heaved as she reduced him to a hot mess, the way her arms trembled, he couldn't help the keening purr that left his lips.

"H-Hornet," he breathed out in return, squeezing shut his optics when she plunged in rather deep. Something snapped inside of him, and this time, when he was screaming out, it was from overload. His EM field crashed around hers, dizzying the femme, and caused her to overload, as well. He keened at the feeling, his scream leaving no wonder as to whether his designation was proper or not, and then he fell back, breathing heavily, processor scrambled, uncertain of what, exactly, had just gone down.

The mess of energon and lubricant would normally prompt the kinky CMO to lap it all up like it was high-grade, but she was not Knockout. And she made this very clear. She pulled out of him, hardly paying heed to his weak whimpers of protest, and then closed her plating, staring down at his frame, admiring her handiwork.

"Clean yourself up, Commander. You've made quite the mess."

He wasn't surprised to hear those words, and had expected the coldness, but he was astonished to hear the breathlessness in her own vocal processors. He had been told he was a good lover by the CMO, but he had always suspected it to be a bunch of kiss-up slag.

Perhaps she enjoyed the act of degradation itself? Had that been what had turned her on, or him? "Oh," she spoke, almost casually, as if she had not just fragged him into stasis lock and back, "and I've got this all recorded."

He was startled out of his reverie, out of admiring her form. "What!?" he squealed, shock evident in his voice. She grinned, and he felt dizziness fall over his processor once more.

"Just in case you ever feel like testing me again," she winked, and then turned, hips swinging this way and that as he watched her go. He had never before realized how sensual that femme was, but now that he knew, he was unable to tear his optics away.

Until he remembered his current predicament. "Slag," he cursed, standing up shakily, trying to ignore the pain pulsing through his frame as he tentatively made his way to the med-bay, being careful to avoid being seen the whole way.

And cursing her designation to the pits and beyond.

(Though he would remember to never mention Soundwave to her again.)

(Or would he?)


End file.
